You were finally settling in with the team. Not to say that all of your worries about fitting in were assuaged; when you sat down the conversation still died down, and the interactions were still sometimes stilted, or they seemed avoidant about touching you, but you didnât feel as uncomfortable with your semi-isolation as you used to.
Today you were flying to meet up with the ULF and someone named Farah Karim to collaborate on some threat. You hadnât met her or her team before, but you were told by the 141 that she did good work, and so did her right hand man, ex-CIA Alex Keller.
When you arrived, a woman with a headscarf greeted you all brightly. Besides her, a man with a mustache. Both wereâŠeasy on the eyes to say the least.
âPrice! Itâs good to see you again.â They grasped each otherâs forearms in greeting before she turned to you. She sized you up briefly, âand a new faceâŠwho is this?â
âFarah, meet the newest member of the 141.â
You smiled politely and shook her hand, âpleasure.â
âHope theyâre not treating you too terribly, and if they are, I can knock them around for you.â She shared a teasing glance with Price.
âYeah, Iâd take her word for it. Been at the receiving end of that myself one too many times.â The man besides her piped up. âIâm Alex, âs good to see a new face. Especially one as nice as yours.â His tone turned a different color at the last part.
Before you could think to respond to that, Farah jabbed her elbow into his side.
âWhat Alex means to say, is that we are glad you a here. Please follow me.â
You tried to push the interaction from your mind and keep a strictly professional demeanor. ButâŠit had been a while since someone had talked to you like that. Since you felt wanted.
You got to talk to Alex a bit more as you all shuffled around settling in and discussing strategy, and he was nice. Really nice. And attractive. And he smelled good which was honestly impressive if you considered how sweatâ
âSergeant!â You snapped out of your train of thought. âYou with us?â
âYes, Captain. Sorry.â
Price was not happy. Farah was eyeing you up and Alex was blatantly flirting and you were staring back. He liked to think he was a man in control of his emotions, and he owed a lot to Farah and Alex, but if they didnât stop making a move on you right nowâŠ
He could tell the rest of his boys were bothered too. Kyle didnât have his normally pleasant expression on, Simon was doing his death stare, and Johnny was clenching his jaw so hard he thought it might crack.
It really was their fault they hadnât made a move sooner. But they werenât sure how you would feel about the whole thing, and John had insisted they wait longer to not compromise the team dynamic.
But every day they fell harder for you. John just didnât realize there could possibly be competition.
The op went well enough. As a group you were able to stop the threat. The real treat was getting to know Farah and Alex. They were both incredibly fun and interesting to talk to, and they treated you so well. Farah showed you around their compound and they ate with you every day. You almost feltâŠcourted.
The other positive was throughout this mission, your own team seemed to warm up to you more. Gone were the stilted conversations and the touch avoidance. Rather, itâs like they started to overcorrect. Priceâs hand found your waist to guide you, Soap was tossing his arm over your shoulder regularly, Kyle was patting your head at every turn, and SimonâŠdidnât look like he wanted to kill you anymore (baby steps). You donât know if it was the change of scenery or if the presence of their other friends made them more open, but you werenât complaining.
When it finally came time to leave and head back to your own base, Farah pulled Price to the side one last time to ask,
âSoâŠis that one yours? Because Alex and Iââ
âOurs,â Price cut her off with finality, âjust doesnât know it yet.â
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đ€ when a mercedes engineering intern is assigned to george russellâs side of the garage, sheâs too busy trying not to mess anything up to notice the attention sheâs getting, especially from a certain rookie who keeps finding excuses to be around.
đ€ kimi antonelli x fem!reader, mercedes intern au, paddock au, oblivious!reader, soft + humour, smau + written (multi-part), face claim: Haerin from newjeans
đ€ note: this is my first time writing so please be nice đ also iâm not an engineering student, so if anything is inaccurate or doesnât fully make sense⊠just go with it.
đ€ Listen to âyou belong with meâ when reading this!
Part one | Part two | Part three | Part four | Part Five
Subject: Mercedes-AMG Petronas F1 Team â Summer Internship Offer
Dear Y/N L/N,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been successful in your application for the Summer Engineering Internship with the Mercedes-AMG Petronas Formula One Team.
During your placement, you will be working closely with members of our race engineering team, supporting various aspects of data analysis, performance evaluation, and garage operations. You will be primarily assigned to the car crew on George Russellâs side of the garage.
We look forward to welcoming you to the team.
Kind regards,
Early Careers Team
Mercedes-AMG Petronas Formula One Team
The paddock at Silverstone was a living thing.
You felt it the second you ducked under the barriers, your lanyard swinging against your ribs like a second heartbeat. The air was thick with everything at once: burning rubber, race fuel, frying onions from the food trucks, and something sweeter underneath, like freshly cut grass baked in July sun. Overhead, helicopters chopped the sky into pieces, ferrying people who probably had never waited in a security line in their lives. You were not one of those people. You were, in fact, power-walking so fast that your tote bag kept sliding off your shoulder, narrowly missing a man carrying what looked like a very expensive camera lens. "Sorry! So sorry â thank you â sorry â" you say before he was already gone.
The garages stretched out in a long row, each one a kingdom of its own. Ferrari red. McLaren papaya. Aston Martin green. And there, three doors down, the silver arrow of Mercedes, sleek and cold as a scalpel. Your chest squeezed just by the sight of it.
Don't mess up. Don't mess up. Don't mess up.
You ducked into the Mercedes garage and immediately felt the temperature drop â air conditioning cranked to combat the British summer, mixing with the smell of hot brakes and nervous sweat. The floor was spotless grey concrete, marked with coloured tape to keep people where they belonged. Mechanics in white or black shirts moved with surgical precision, speaking into headsets, tapping tablets, adjusting things you couldn't even name. A woman with sharp eyes and a laminated badge spotted you first. âYou're the intern. George's side," she says as she walks without looking back to check on you. "Yes. I'm Y/N. Hi" you say as you follow her.
"Don't touch anything."
Don't touch anything. Good. That was easy. You could do that.
You spent the next four hours doing exactly that â standing two steps behind George Russell's senior engineer, absorbing information like a sponge that was desperately trying not to drown. You handed the tools when asked. You took notes on a tablet until your thumbs ached. You learned where the coffee machine was (critical) and which mechanics didn't like being spoken to before 10 AM (most of them). By the time you were sent to grab a data printout from the engineering room at the far end of the garage row, your brain felt like static. You were walking fast. Too fast. Eyes on the concrete floor, replaying torque specs in your head, mentally rearranging the wiring diagram you'd been shown an hour ago: Sixty-two newton meters. Sixty-two. Not sixty-three. Sixty-two â
You turned the corner and walked directly into someone hard. Your tablet clattered to the ground. A water bottle went rolling. You stumbled back, arms flailing, and would have landed on your ass if two hands hadn't shot out to catch you by the elbows.
"Whoa â sorry â I wasn't â" you say, looking up.
Dark curls. Brown eyes wide with surprise. A Mercedes polo shirt with the sleeves pushed up. A jaw that looked like it had been carved by someone with a very specific aesthetic vision. You knew this face. You'd seen it on screens, on posters, on the paddock entry list you'd memorised last night at 2 AM.
Andrea Kimi Antonelli. The rookie who was leading the championship. The one everyone was watching.
He was holding you like you weighed nothing, his fingers warm through the thin fabric of your sleeves. His mouth was slightly open, like he'd been about to say something and forgotten how words worked.
"You're â" he started. "I'm so sorry," you interrupted, already pulling away, already bending down to grab your tablet, already moving. "That was completely my fault. I wasn't looking. Are you okay? Sorry â I have to â I have to get this to â" You were already backing away, clutching the tablet to your chest like a shield. Kimi blinked; his hand was still half-extended from catching you. "It's fine. Don't worry. Are you â"
"Fine! Totally fine. Thank you. Sorry again," you say as you rush out without looking back.
Kimi stood there for a long three seconds. His water bottle was still rolling slowly across the floor. No one had picked it up. He was still staring at the spot where you'd disappeared around the corner. "Who was that?" he asked aloud, to no one. A passing mechanic shrugged as they said, "New intern. George's side." Kimi nodded slowly before bending down, picking up his water bottle, and walking back to his side of the garage. He didn't say another word for the rest of the walk. But he was smiling.
TAMSY NOTICED YOU the moment you first stepped into the Cleaners' headquarters. He was being briefed by Semiu on his next mission, which coincidentally was the perfect opportunity to test a potential new Cleaner.
Of course, at first, he didn't care that much about youâhell, he even toyed with the idea of letting you take the heavy blows of the trash beasts just for funsies. It would've been amusing to watch you scramble about, or maybe even break a little from the pressure of the trial mission.
So imagine his surprise when you not only defeated the trash beasts with ease, but even managed to protect him from a surprise attack.
He stood still for a second, blinking slowly as he casually hid Tokushin back into the sleeves of his coat.
You were breathing rather heavily, adrenaline still rushing through your veins, eyes bright as you shot him a worried look. Rushing to his side, you inspected his figure, hands fluttering just an inch over him, eyes searching every part of his body as though expecting him to have been bleeding.
"Are you okay, Tamsy?" you asked, voice breathy but steady as you finished examining him.
For a moment, he just watched you, memorising the crease in your forehead, the tightness in your jaw, and the way your hands twitched at your sides, like it wanted to hover over him again. He then nodded, smiling as he guided you back with the others. "I'm fine," he said with an easy smile, brushing dust off his uniform. "Thanks to you, apparently."
You exhaled a shaky breath, relief immediately brightening your features. And thenâyou laughed. A small, breathless sound, but it rang like chapel bells in his ears.
Huh, how odd.
That... was nice.
You stuck close to him on the way back, practically glued to his side as rambled excitedly about the fight. "I can't believe I got there fast enough! I mean, I totally thought I would freeze, but I didn't! And you were so cool back there, Tamsy! You didn't even flinch when that trash beast jumped at you!"
Then, you paused, as if you remembered a crucial detail before flashing a big smile toward his direction. "Oh! And if I'm accepted by the boss, I might actually join your team. I mean, that's crazy, right?"
He hummed, nodding absently as he guided you up into the jeep, occupying the seat directly next to yours. He didn't mind being in the middle, just seeing how you were caged by himâhow it only allowed you to talk to himâpleases him in a way he couldn't believe.
Outwardly, he looked calm. Relaxed and poised, not to mention, mildly entertained.
But inside?
He was replaying every moment that had led up to this.
It wasn't unusual for other Cleaners to cover each other's open spotsânobody really wanted to watch their teammates die, unfortunately. So, really, he shouldn't even be thinking about you and the way you saved his ass out there. It was the natural thing to do, especially since he was the one supervising your trial mission.
So why was he drawn to you?
There was only one way to find out.
His expression remained gentle, conversing with you while his thoughts sharpened with a quiet, eerie clarity.
If you joined his team, you'd be around him constantly. Training with him, going on missions with him, and most importantly, relying on him.
You would be close to him. Very, very close.
You kept talking, smiling brightly, oblivious to the way his eyes lingered on you a bit too longânot very Tamsy-like behaviour, if others were to see.
"You're really something," he said lightly, tone airy. "Most new recruits wouldn't be able to handle themselves that well."
You grinned proudly, leaning your shoulders to his. "Really? You mean that?"
He nodded, smile widening with deceptive warmth. "You're impressive. You'll fit in perfectly in my team."
And in his mind, he was already turning over possibilities. How useful you could be in his plans and how much fun he could have with messing with you.
ââââàšà§ââââ
He studied you after that.
His eyes always lingered on you, watching with cold precision every movement, every word, every action, and every detail that you expressed in the headquarters.
Every detail mattered for Tamsy.
The way your shoulders relaxed whenever he smiled at you.
The way you leaned a little closer whenever you talked excitedly, head tilting forty-five degrees to your left.
The way you opened doors with your right hand and closed them by tapping the heel of your foot.
The way you always hum an ancient lullaby after you showered, wet hair wrapped in your favourite towel.
The way you read books about the Sphere, always searching and asking for answers related to it.
The way you do a little dance after beating other Cleaners during training.
The way you meticulously clean your jinki, leaving it on your bedside table before going to sleep.
The way you have a skip on your steps when you spotted him by the corner of your room.
The way you always picked the spot beside him when you two eat, walk, or sit in the jeep.
The way you were always by his side after fighting trash beasts, eyes searching for possible injuries.
And the way you scanned his expression after every mission, as if subconsciously seeking his approval.
Ahhh...
So, you were that type, huh? The kind who wanted to be useful; to be praised; and who always respond beautifully to his small cues.
His favourite toy to play with.
He'd set up moments where you'd coincidentally past him on your way down the hall, eyes immediately latching on his form as you halted to a full stop. And every time, without fail, you'd brighten up.
"Oh, Tamsy! I didn't realise you were here!"
He'd just smile gently before responding, "I was on my way to the garden. Want to walk with me?"
You'd always say yes.
Of course, you would.
You never noticed how his gaze lingered longer and longer each time, soft on the surface but heavy underneath.
You didn't notice the tiny curl of amusement at the corner of his lips whenever you got flustered.
You didn't notice how he always made sure he was always present in your mission, but not the other way around.
You didn't notice how the lock on your door loosened when someone jabbed it at the right angle.
You didn't notice the way he always seemed to know things you'd never told him. Where you'd been, who you'd talked to, what you'd been reading, and how late you'd stayed up.
You didn't notice how his fingers twitched whenever someone else made you laugh.
My, oh my. Weren't you just an oblivious teammate? Too trusting, too open, and just too easy to pull in.
He was having too much fun watching you wander so innocently, so blindly into his hands. And, well, he really didn't want to put a stop on this little adventure he was having with you.
ââââàšà§ââââ
"What're your hobbies, Tamsy?" you asked him randomly while eating lunch with him and Delmon.
Tamsy pretended to think about it, relishing the way you inched closer in curiosity, almost too eager to hear his answer.
It was laughable how easy this all was considering you naturally gravitated toward him.
"I like listening to music," he said flatly, taking a bite of his food.
Delmon nodded aggressively. "Yes! He sometimes play it too loud in the morning, causing a ruckus!" he agreed, voice loud enough to shake the table.
Tamsy didn't look at him, but he felt a vein pulse in his forehead.
You snorted, covering your mouth as you swallowed a bite. "I like singing and dancing, though I'm not that good at it," you chuckled embarrassed, a tint of redness spreading on the nape of your neck.
I know, Tamsy nearly said. He could still picture you tripping in the west wing hallway yesterday, arms flailing as you tried to waltz with an imaginary partner, before looking around and sighing in relief because you thought no one saw it.
Instead, he smiled, lips tugging a bit too high.
"There's no need to be embarrassed," he reassured, tilting his head in the way you trusted him more. "You're not obliged to be good at your hobbies; as long as you like them, that's good enough."
Delmon nodded firmly, arms crossed over his chest. "Tamsy is right! Passion and effort matter most!"
You shrunk under their gazes, fingers tugging at the seams of your pants. "Yeah!" you mumbled, lips quirking to a small grin before you continued. "Oh! And I also like studying about the Sphereâ"
Tamsy nearly snorted. That's too obvious, dear, he thought, mentally rolling his eyes. Everyone in the Cleaners knew you were curious about the Sphere and Ground. The archives were practically your second bedroom alreadyâwith a table set up just for you.
But then, you continued, "Did you guys know they have this thing called a 'God'? I just read about it the other day..."
Tamsy's eyes widen for a fraction of a second before he dulled it back to a neutral expression. Huh, now wasn't this interesting? This was new, even for him! He didn't know you'd wandered this deep into (forbidden) Sphereite knowledge.
Where did you learn that word?
How much did you know about the concept?
Were you aware of it's importance to the Ground?
Ah, weren't you just full of surprises today.
Tamsy's attention tunneled entirely onto you.
The tiny flick of your eyes. The nervous way you twirled your spoon. The way you kept stealing a glance at his direction.
You were clever, he knew that. But perhaps, there was something even you were hiding from him
Those types of people always ended up interesting.
"How'd you learn that?" he asked gently, carefully neutral on the outside, yet he was brimming with too much curiosity beneath it.
"Oh, uh..." you trailed off, teeth tugging at your lower lip as if debating whether to share the truth. Then, you leaned forward and crooked a finger, beckoning him closer. He didn't hesitate. Warm breath brushed against the tip of his ear the moment you spoke, sending a faint, involuntary shiver down his spine. "Don't tell anyone about this," you whispered, voice low and husky. "But I accidentally stumbled on old files in the west archive." Strands of your hair brushed against his shoulder.
Ah, that was interesting.
His smile widened, sweet and sickly, as he put a finger on his lips, promising to keep your secret. You lit up, face bright with pure trust, and immediately turned toward Delmon to ramble about something else entirely, leaving Tamsy sitting there with his hand on his lap, eyes following you with careful precision.
You were learning things you shouldn't, and seeing things you weren't meant to see. This might be troublesome in the future, especially with everything he had been planning. Especially with what he intended to do once he finally dragged Rudo down into the role he belonged.
Yes... troublesome indeed.
He needed to pay closer attention to you now, making sure that you weren't putting your nose where it shouldn't belong. You might become a problem for him... or an opportunity.
Either way, it made him inwardly grin. A quiet thrill curled in his chest, fluttering with delight at all the possibilities you were unknowingly giving him.
So trying to get your attention when youâre unbelievably oblivious is his favorite, most frustrating pastime.
Itâs even worse that youâre such a hopeless romantic. You read stories and play games involving the delights of romance that make you blush, bite your lip, and squirm in barely self-contained delight. Yet, when Sylus presents you with flowers or takes you on a one-on-one outing watching the sunset drift into starlight, your adorably oblivious self sees it as nothing more than kind gestures of a friend.
A bestie.
Sylus regularly gets into his own room after such outings, frustrated in a way that has his ears red and an incredulous laugh squeezing its way out of him. He has to take cold showers regularly after seeing you.
You touch him without so much as a thought, but shy away when he wants to also engage in such casual closeness. You were far more an expert of playing hot and cold with him, and you werenât even trying.
It all changes when you suggest a silly little drinking game while you show him yet another one of your favorite shows. Itâs not enough that you were both knocking back constant shots, but it was enough that Sylus stared at you more than usual.
And when you finally ask why he was staring?
Heâs grabbing your jaw, rubbing a thumb on your bottom lip.
âIâve been trying to get your attention for weeks.â He murmurs low. âYet you still somehow donât get it.â
Heâs crowding your space now. The heat on your face isnât just the alcohol. You know you could push him away and heâd listen, but-
âI want you.â He breathes against your lips, nose brushing yours. âI need you.â
Your lungs only fuel the faintest whimper when his hips naturally settle between your thighs. You didnât even realize you were gripping him closer with clawed fingers in his upper arms.
âTell me⊠tell me you want me too.â Heâs growling against your lips until you finally close that last little bit of space between you.
"we can't be friends anymore."
you stood in something resembling disbelief while iwaizumi, your best friend and closest confidant, said something so blunt that you were stunned into silence.
you watched his hands, always the teller of his emotions, fidget uselessly for a second before stilling, almost as if he knew he was being watched. his eyes, usually warm, were filled with a conviction so strong you genuinely felt fear.
the summer air embraced the two of you, the wind sweeping over your cheeks in comfort. iwaizumi dropped his gaze to the floor before finally speaking again.
"it's not your fault," he sighed, shoving his hands into his pockets. "in fact, i don't want you blaming yourself at all. i know you would. you're so sweet. you'd never understand. but i can't do this anymore."
"what did i do?" you asked, voice trembling ever so slightly, "i thought we were alright hajime."
upon hearing his first name he winced.
"look." he said, "i know you obviously don't feel the same way as i do, and i tried for months. and i know that you're too nice to tell me that you don't feel the same, and god i want your time. i want all of it. but i cannot force you to loan your heart out when you don't feel the way i do."
your mouth fell open, brows contorting in shock. "what do you mean?" you whispered, hardly able to believe what you were hearing. "i don't feel the same? feel the same about what?"
iwaizumi blinked in confusion. "what?"
"i'm serious!" you explained, waving your hands around pathetically. "to me, it sounds like you're breaking off our friendship. and i don't want that, and i want to know what i did."
iwaizumi's eyes widened before he hid his laugh behind his hand. you continued to wait for his explanation, but all you received was the beautiful chimes of his laugh filling the air between you.
"do i need to spell it out?" he chuckled, looking towards the heavens like it would give him answers. "i thought i was obvious."
"obvious?" you shot back. "hajime, be direct."
"i like you so much it's driving me insane. i cannot pretend to be friends anymore because what i want is to take you out. and spend all my time with you. romantically. so i am asking you to have mercy on my heart and reject me."
"WHAT!" you yelled, more at him than anyone else. "what makes you think i'd reject you?"
"you didn't seem to like me so..."
"i've been after you for months," you groaned, "why else would i search up that tofu recipe you like. and come to your volleyball games, and help you study anatomy with that dumb skeleton in your room. i like you. a lot. i just wanted your company more than anything else. i thought you didn't like me."
with that, iwaizumi grinned, shaking his head in disbelief. "disgusting. if tooru was watching this, he'd never let us live that down."
you giggled, reaching over to grab one of his hands.
"let's go on a date." you smile. "you can tell me all about this little crush of yours."
he sighed, lacing his fingers between your own and heading off towards the nearest ice cream shop. the evening sun set behind you, the watercolor sky painting the end of a miscommunication and the first of many dates.
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Michael had just released his newest album, Bad, and invited you to an event to promote it. It was in a few days, and since you were his plus one, you asked him to dress you. Michael, being his extraordinary self, made you a custom dress that would match his outfit. Michael would always tell you to stay over at his place, saying it was easier to have you nearby, and what if the measurements were off?
He always had an excuse to make you stay, but you weren't complaining; you got to have a sleepover with your best friend! While Michael never told you that many of his romantic songs had been inspired by you, he wasn't expecting you to look absolutely beautiful in the outfit he had made for you.
The night of the event came, and you wore the outfit while he waited for you, admiring you while you were applying your makeup. You were used to Michael's fame, having been his friend during the peak of his career.
Thriller made you get used to the paparazzi and screaming fans. You learned to stick to him like glue when walking, or you'd lose him completely. As you were finishing up your makeup, your eyes caught Michael in the mirror, and he smiled while looking away, his ears burning up.
"What? Why are you looking at me?"
"You're a beautiful woman, that's all." You laughed as you did your final touches and turned to him. He looked you up and down, shyly nodding his head before offering his hand to you.
You took his hand and let him guide you to the car; you both made yourselves comfortable. You smoothed down your dress and looked out the window while Michael shamelessly stared at you. This was one of his habits; you assumed it was to keep you safe and nothing more. Hearing the loud commotion of people made you take a deep breath, knowing you were nearing the event venue. Soon, the bright flashes started to show in the distance. Michael held your hand gently, giving it a reassuring squeeze, and you smiled at him.
He stepped out first, then turned toward you, shielding you from the cameras while you slid out of the car. He kept his body close to yours while you fixed your dress to make sure you were decent. Michael spoke in your ear, "You don't have to answer questions." You looked up at him and nodded. "Yeah, I know. No reactions, just vague answers." He smiled when you told him what he used to tell you about the paparazzi. He held your hand and led you inside while bright flashes blinded you; you weren't as used to the brightness as he was. Once inside the venue, the commotion stayed outside, and you relaxed while Michael looked around for people to talk to. "I think I'm gonna get us a drink, okay? I'll find you later."
"Okay... I'll keep an eye out." He kissed your cheek to bid you good luck before you headed towards the bar.
As you scanned the packed area, wondering what drink to get, you felt a presence behind you. "Hey, pretty lady, you here alone?" You looked at the person and smiled politely. "Actually, I came with a friend," you said to him.
He offered his hand to you. "Eddie Murphy." He kissed the back of your hand. You laughed shyly and introduced yourself to him.
"It's nice to meet you, Eddie." He smiled and looked at the bartender. "Let me buy you your drink. What do you want?" You looked around for Michael for a moment, not seeing where he was at all, before turning to Eddie. "Uh, I'm not too sure... I was gonna get something sweet for my friend and me." Eddie gestured towards the bartender. "Something sweet for the lady and her friend, on my tab." The bartender nodded and started making your drinks.
Unknown to you, Michael was burning holes in the back of Eddie's head. His jaw was tight as he tried to stay in the conversation he was in without seeming too tense. His eyes were glued to you as you chatted happily with the obvious flirting man. There you go again, being oblivious to people's advances. He was the number one victim of it, after all.
He decided to wait for the drinks and to keep you close to him for the rest of the night, but you kept lingering around Eddie. Michael clenched his teeth tightly before excusing himself and making his way towards you. As conversation flowed between you and Eddie, you suddenly felt a hand grip your waist and Michael's black orchid perfume hit your nose.
"Hey, Eddie," Michael said in his casual, soft voice.
"Hey, Mike." Eddie shook his hand and greeted him.
"Oh, Michael, I was just gonna get us our drinks." He got less tense at your words and tried to excuse himself and you from Eddie. But nothing ever comes that easy. Eddie ended up following as you three sat down.
Eddie kept flirting and casually teasing while you only laughed and flirted back, thinking it was only friendly banter. Michael had his jaw tight; you could almost hear his teeth grinding if it wasn't for the loud venue. When Eddie tried to invite you over to his place to keep the night going between you two, Michael cut in, his voice firmer than before. "She's actually coming home with me." Eddie understood and nodded his head once. "Well, you two have a pleasant night. If you'll excuse me." You looked at Michael, a little surprised by his sudden attitude towards his friend. "What's wrong?" Michael's face was different now. His eyes were darker and his features were tense. He scoffed under his breath. "What's wrong...you always do this."
Your confusion only deepened at his accusation.
"Do what? What am I doing?" You questioned him, your mood slowly souring as well.
"You know." Your frustration doubled. "Know what? I wouldn't be asking if I knew." He got up and gestured for you to stand as well. "Let's go back home." Your brows furrowed together. "We just got here... you didn't even get your award or finish promoting your album?" Michael sighed in frustration, shaking his head. "Forget it," he said before storming off to the restroom.
You sat there feeling upset, your mood completely soured because you had no idea what came over him or why he made a scene with you.
You grabbed his wrist to stop him, shocking him for a moment.
"Don't walk away!"
He took advantage of your hand in his grasp and pulled you outside.
"Michael! Stop," you shouted, confused and frustrated. He paused. He still respected you and your boundaries.
His expression was angry, yet hesitant. "We don't have to stay."
You scowled. "I want to stay." He dropped your wrist from his grip, watching as you folded your arms over your chest. His expression softened.
"I'm sorry."
He stepped closer and kissed your cheek apologetically. You couldn't stay mad at him and nodded, but he didn't like that response.
Tilting his head down to meet your eyes, he repeated,
"Truly... I am."
Sighing softly, you smiled. "It's okay. Let's just go back." He held your hand as the two of you walked back into the venue.
The drinks you had gotten earlier had thawed, and condensation dripped down the sides of the glasses.
"I'll get us something this time. You just sit tight," he said before heading to the bar.
You sat down, fixing your dress. When you looked up, you noticed a tall, well-built man approaching. He looked like a producer.
You smiled politely at him, which seemed to give him the green light. He took the seat beside you and offered his hand.
"Hi, beautiful."
You shook his hand.
"Hi."
Turns out, you were right, he was a producer. He talked your ear off, telling you about the number-one hits he'd produced over the years. You were impressed. It was interesting, and you didn't know much about the music industry.
Michael returned with freshly chilled drinks, his hands gripping the glasses a little too tightly.
He sat down beside you, setting the drinks on the table with an intentionally loud clink. You looked at him and smiled, taking a sip of your drink before turning your attention back to the producer.
He was polite and funny, making you laugh so hard that you had to put your drink down to stop yourself from choking on it.
Michael bit down hard on his lip, visibly shifting in his seat, uncomfortable.
Michael rested his hand on your knee, a silent way of telling the man that you weren't leaving with him. But it didn't seem to get your attention.
Usually, you'd place your hand over his and intertwine your fingers with his, but you were so immersed in the conversation that you didn't even notice.
The producer droned on and on, and the words floated in one ear and out the other for Michael. Meanwhile, you looked as though you were discovering a brand-new element on the periodic table.
It frustrated him.
He let out an exasperated huff, which finally seemed to catch your attention.
"Michael? You okay?"
He practically sat up straight the moment you looked at him. His eyes lit up more.
"Yeah... I'm good," he replied as casually as he could. But his sweaty palms said otherwise.
You weren't convinced. Having known him for so long, you casually rested your hand on top of his.
He immediately intertwined your fingers with his, holding your hand just a little tighter, silently sending a message directly to the producer.
You weren't his. Not yet. He was simply too shy to ask you to be.
But God...He wanted to.
Were you truly oblivious to every hint he dropped?
At first, your obliviousness had been endearing.
Right now, however...
He wanted nothing more than to kiss you. Just to make you finally understand.
Holding your hand seemed to genuinely calm him down, but that peace was short-lived when you turned back to the producer, smiling that beautiful smile Michael wished belonged only to him. He gave your hand a gentle squeeze, silently hoping you'd look at him again.
You didn't. He tried again to get your attention.
"Here, try mine... you'll like it," he said softly, handing you his glass. He instinctively turned it so the rim met the same place his lips had touched.
It was a habit he'd never admitted to.
He always drank from the place he knew you would, and whenever he handed you his drink, he made sure you drank from the same spot he had.
It was the closest thing he allowed himself to a kiss. You took a sip, focusing on the flavor before nodding.
It wasn't your favorite, but you couldn't lie, it was good.
"Yum," you said playfully. The corners of Michael's lips curled into a smile. At least he got your attention for a few seconds.
The producer offered to buy you another drink once you'd finished yours, but you politely shook your head.
"Oh, thank you, but I'm not much of a drinker..." you declined with a warm smile.
He simply nodded, respecting your decision. Michael almost smirked.
In a way, it felt like he'd won whatever silent competition he'd been having with the man all evening. What he hadn't expected, however, was for the producer to be bold enough to ask,
"Would you like to dance?"
Michael's smile vanished instantly. You instantly got to your feet and slipped your hand into his.
Michael barely had time to process what was happening. Before he knew it, you and the producer were already weaving through the crowd toward the dance floor, blending in with the other couples.
All he could do was watch.
All he could think about was marching over, stealing you away from the crowd, and taking you somewhere it was just the two of you. Instead, he stood. He was Michael Jackson. If there was one thing he could rely on, it was dancing.
Slipping through the crowd, he came up behind you and rested a gentle hand on your waist, carefully pulling you toward him, hoping you'd finally look his way.
And it seemed that having him there brightened your face even more.
You turned to him with the biggest, brightest smile, quietly cheering him on as the two of you began dancing together. He could feel himself growing flustered having you so close, your body brushing lightly against his as you moved together across the dance floor.
If it weren't for his stage makeup, you would have teased him relentlessly for the rosy blush spreading across his cheeks.
Before he could thank whatever force was finally on his side for bringing you into his arms...
Two beautiful women approached you.
One of them took your hand and spun you around effortlessly, making you burst into laughter. Within moments, you'd already made friends with them.
And once again...
Michael was left standing there, watching you.
Soon enough, you grew tired.
Waving goodbye to the new friends you'd made, you headed back toward your table, only to realize Michael wasn't there. You looked around the room, scanning the crowd for him.
After a few moments, you finally spotted him in the distance. He appeared to be talking to a stunningly beautiful woman.
You smiled and waved. He noticed you, returning your wave with a small one of his own before turning his full attention back to the woman.
You stood there for a moment, deciding to wait. You didn't want to interrupt. From the look on his face, he seemed genuinely engaged in the conversation.
A small pang of jealousy settled in your chest. But it was quickly replaced by something warmer.
You were happy for him. Maybe... he'd finally found someone to love.
Smiling to yourself, you reached into your purse and pulled out a small compact mirror. "My lipstick..." you mumbled to yourself.
You decided it was the perfect time to freshen up.
Pushing the restroom door open, you found a mirror and uncapped your lipstick, only to be disappointed when you realized you had accidentally grabbed the wrong one. You had originally been wearing a velvet-finish peachy nude, but in your hands was quite literally the opposite.
Staring back at you was a deep, glossy red lipstick.
Deciding it wasn't worth making a fuss over, you carefully painted your lips before lightly dusting powder over your nose.
You stepped out of the bathroom and looked for Michael. He was still engaged in conversation with the woman, so you simply made your way back to your seat.
Michael, having failed in his attempt to make you jealous, returned to you with his tail between his legs and sat down beside you, only for his heart to hammer loudly in his chest.
His eyes were glued to your ruby, plump lips.
He tore his gaze away and gulped.
"You changed your lipstick?"
You nodded.
"Yeah! I accidentally grabbed this one."
His eyes remained fixed on your pretty lips as you spoke. He had to physically look away, turning his head completely to the side, afraid the temptation would make him kiss you right then and there.
He cleared his throat before looking back at you, only to find you talking with the same two women from before.
He wasn't used to not having your attention.
"Please... pardon us."
He took your hand and gently led you toward the back of the venue, calling for his car to be pulled around, which immediately made you concerned.
"Michael? Is something wrong..."
Your worry only deepened.
"Are... are you in pain again? Please don't tell me it's hurting again."
Your anxious tone made his head snap toward you.
He quickly took both your hands and kissed your knuckles, shaking his head.
"No, no... not like that. I just want to go home."
You were still tense.
"Don't hide things from me."
He gently rubbed his hands up and down your arms, trying to soothe you. "I'm alright... I promise," he said softly.
But you were still worried.
You held his hand and became the one dragging him toward the car as quickly as you could.
He opened the door for you, shielding you from the cameras once again before sliding in after you.
You sat down, looking at him with concern, while he looked as though he could finally breathe.
"Michael... what happened?"
He didn't want to talk anymore.
Instead, he simply cupped your jaw and gently guided your face toward his, moving slowly so you had every opportunity to pull away or stop him.
But you never did.
And so, his lips softly claimed yours in a long-awaited kiss. You held your breath as you two kissed in the back seat of his car. You could feel him growing impaitent wanting you closer. Without parting, he held your hips and guided you to be on his lap. Wrapping your arms his neck, you pressed closer which only made him softly whine against your mouth.
You felt your lungs burn and beg for air so you pulled away from him only for Michael to chase after you lips with his closing the gap yet again.
"Michael" you held his shoulders pulling away once more and when his lips chased yours again you kept your habds firm on his shoulders only causing him to whine in disapproval.
Your lipstick was smudged and all over his mouth too. You both looked at each other then tension thickening with every second. His fingers delicately rubbed the side of your hip.
"Why did you kiss me" that question broke the dam of words in him.
"I want to be your boyfriend. I've fallen in love with you. For so long...I've wanted you. You're beautiful. You're kind. And I want to be with you." He pecked your lips carefully "I want to kiss you every morning, every night, before every show because you are angel from heaven and I do believe you were sent for me." Again, he pecked your lips in a short kiss before looking at you vulnerable and hesitant.
Your cheeks were burning up as you nodded your head very shyly not expecting his tender words to be directed at you and for you.
"Yeah...?" He asked wanting to be sure.
"Yeah" you said while pulling him into another kiss.
Michael couldn't hold back anymore wanting to claim you at this very moment. He carefully laid you down in the backseats while he hovered above you and you looked at him both your hearts racing rapidly. You looked too good. Lipstick smeared because of him and eyes adoring him.
"Oh god..." immediately he covered his face with hands feeling extremely shy and regretful of the sudden confidence surge that came through him. You sat up again and kissed his hand laughing at his shy face.
The rest of the car ride was spent with you teasing him and him rubbing the back his neck, accepting defeat.
au: hi loves happy day 4 of kinkmas. this one absolutely ran away from me in the best possible way. thank you for all the love on this series so far! youâre the sweetest little holiday gift ever and i hope this one makes you kick your feet a little.
you exhale and tuck yourself into a corner of the bullpen, balancing a paper plate of gingerbread cookies and mentally preparing for battle. you like christmas, you truly do but crowds make your shoulders inch up toward your ears. you just wanted cookies, a quiet wall, and maybe to watch clark kent exist from a safe distance like the walking emotional comfort blanket he is. also: he promised heâd meet you here tonight.
but you donât see him yet, mentally cursing yourself for being so into him. itâs fine! totally fine! you think as your brain immediately shoots back to the tray of cookies in your hands. before you can even take a bite of your sugar cookie, letting the vanilla and cinnamon hit your tongue someone steps directly into your line of vision. "wow!" the guy says, smiling like heâs been waiting his whole life to be annoying. "you must be new! i wouldâve remembered someone like you."
he beams as he looks you once over, you want to frown but you fake it til you make it. 'great, a pick-up line wrapped in cologne that arrived three seconds before he did.' you think as you come up with a reply on the spot. "uh." you say politely, "i work in features." you even smile a little friendly, approachable eve because youâre not rude. he steps closer. way too close. "features."
he repeats, like the word owes him money. "guess i should read that more often." and you take a tiny step back but he takes a even bigger step forward. 'annoying, the nerve of this guy.' your brain screams. not dangerous, but annoying enough to spark a brilliant, terrible idea in your head. use him as clark-bait.
you school your face into a perfect 'oh no iâm trapped' expression, widening your eyes just enough to look helpless. you tilt your chin up at the guy, like youâre cornered. but in your head, youâre chanting: 'okay clark, please. now would be a great time to look over here. come on. come save me, pretty boy!'
you glance around subtly, pretending to scan for an exit. what you donât see: someone across the room freezing mid-conversation. what you donât feel: the shift in air. but clark sees you. and clark sees him leaning over you and thatâs when clark kent ever the farmboy, sweetheart, softest human alive completely stops pretending heâs unaffected and goes very, very still.
lois elbows him in the ribs. "kent? your glasses are fogging...breathe." he inhales through his nose. it doesnât help, not when you smell like vanilla again that warm, sweet scent he memorized without meaning to. "should i go over there?" he asks, voice too tight. lois raises a brow. "do you want to?" he doesnât answer, he doesnât need to. because the guy leans one hand against the wall beside your head, and clark is already moving.
a quiet, determined glide through the crowd, all six feet of him locked onto you like youâre the only thing keeping the earth on its axis. "so," the man says, leaning closer, "you busy after this? we couldâ" he's cut off swiftly by clark's charming, "hey." his warm voice cuts in, deep and honey-sweet. you exhale in dramatic relief, partly real, partly the performance of the century.
as clark steps beside you, sleeves rolled, tie crooked, flannel peeking under his coat. "iâve been looking for you." he says, like the rest of the room doesnât exist. you blink up at him, playing innocent. "oh, you have?" clark nods. well... yeah. i saved you a mug of the good hot chocolate before jimmy added⊠whatever he added." he blinked baffled, the guy clears his throat. "we were talking."
clark doesnât look threatening. he never does, he kind of just smiles kindly. with absolutely nothing behind it except a silent promise of: walk away. "oh, sorry were you?" clark asks softly. the guy stutters something that might have been yes, or sorry, or goodbye, and nearly trips over a decorative candy cane on his way out.
you wait three beats, just long enough for the guy to fully retreat â then let your shoulders slump in exaggerated exhaustion. "thank you." you whisper. "i thought heâd never leave." clark frowns, not angryily or concerned but focused. protective in that way that melts your bones a little. "was he bothering you?" clark asks, guiding you away from the crowd with a gentle hand on your back. "you looked⊠uncomfortable."
you bite your lip, eyes big, playing up the helpless act. "yeah..." you say softly. "i didnât know how to get out of it." clarkâs eyes darken behind his glasses. "well, you can always call me." he murmurs. "you donât have to handle that alone." and your chest flips, it feels warm. "i know." you say, voice small and with a smile, "thatâs why i kept looking around. i just⊠hoped youâd see."
clark stops walking. "you were looking for me?" he nearly chokes, you simply nod, your heart thundering under your chest at the admitance. "i always do." and if clark wasn't already jealous, protective and tense. boy, he sure is now. his voice drops low, "sweetheart, if ever someone makes you uncomfortable. i'm not going to let that slide. never." your breath catches at this new side of him.
'sweetheart.' he didn't even notice he had said that. "i just... didn't think he was flirting." your lie rolls off smoothly, because the bit isn't over yet for you. "i thought he was just being nice." you shrugged but clark just stares at you like the sky suddenly turned green.
"you... you didn't notice?" his exhale is harsh, he looks away and looks back. "notice what?" your soft playing coy and unattentive. "that he was flirting with you." he flatly says "hard." your eyebrows shoot up. "oh, really??"clark looks personally offended by your confusion. "yes." he huffs out shaking his head.
âbut⊠why?â the expression he makes is somewhere between heartbroken and absolutely in love with you. "sweetheart..." he murmurs his voice softening. "have you seen yourself?" you swallow as you try to calm your reply, "i⊠didnât know you noticed." he smiles, it's small, shy, devastating. "i notice everything you do." your knees nearly give out.
clarkâs confession is quiet, unassuming, earth-shaking and just hangs between you like a pulled thread. youâre afraid to breathe in case it snaps. "you⊠notice everything?" you echo, voice tinier than intended to come out. clark swallows, adamâs apple bobbing. "i mean..." he rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed to his bones. "i try not to stare. but you, um⊠make that difficult." he says shyly as your brain immediately begins to overheat and reboot like a computer system.
"me!?" your voice squeaks out, clark huffs out a soft laugh. he glances down at you through his dark lases with that impossible combination of gentleness and desperation he doesn't even know he leaks. "yes, you." voice gentle and soft like those early city mornings. the words wrap around you like the big red scarf still draped over his arm.
the one he wore here but hasnât had the heart to put back on since he gave it to you the second you stepped into the cold hallway. you tug the edge of the scarf around your shoulders. "clark, i⊠i didnât mean to worry you." he stops walking again, his breath fogging in the air. snow drifting in lazy spirals outside the glass windows.
"you didnât." he says instantly. "you couldnât." you raise an eyebrow at his confession. "i couldnât?" clark looks shy suddenly. "i meanâi always want to be there, for you! even if you aren't uncomfortable. even if youâre just⊠bored. or lost. or pretending someone is bothering you so iâll come over.â
your stomach drops. howâ how did he know? "whâwhat makes you think i was pretending?" you ask, trying not to crack. clark tilts his head, gives you that reporter stare he usually reserves for corrupt billionaires and suspiciously cheap apartment landlords. "youâre a terrible actress." he says softly and you open your mouth. then close it. open it again.
"iâexcuse me??" you sputter. "i just gave the performance of a lifetime! oscar worthy!" clarkâs lip twitches, a smile that threatens to actually break through the fluster. "sweetheart⊠you looked like a cartoon character holding up a sign that said âplease save me clark!" your hands fly to your face, mortified and somehow warm all over. "i hate you." you huff feigning annoyance.
he laughs under his breath. "no, you donât." you glare up at him through mascara coated lashes. "i might!" you huff out. "no..." he repeats, smiling now, eyes soft as winter light. "no, you donât." the worst part is heâs right. you donât... not even a little. you both step into the elevator, the doors gliding shut, trapping the warmth between you. clark presses the button for the lobby and then leans just slightly against the wall, sleeves rolled up enough to show his forearms, tie crooked, hair perfect in that 'just shoved his hands through it' way.
you try not to stare but you fail miserably. of course clark notices the exact moment your eyes drop to his mouth and immediately clears his throat, flustered down to the marrow. "so..." he says, voice an octave lower than normal, "whyâd you do it?" you blink, confused "do what?" he gives you the look, the one that undresses you in kindness, not heat. "pretend you needed me." your heartbeat stutters. "i didnât pretend that..." you say quietly. "i did need you." that stops him cold.
"oh?" clark breathes. "i, i thoughtâ" you softly sigh, "no." you shake your head. "i mean, yeah, the guy wasnât that bad but i wanted you. not because i needed rescuing, but becauseâŠ" you bite your lip, letting the truth hover just out of reach. "âŠbecause i like being around you." clarkâs breath catches and his hand resting by his side, curls slightly. like heâs fighting every instinct in him not to reach for you. "i like being around you too." he says softly, before adding onto his actual confession. "a lot."
the elevator dings breaking the tension a bit. you walk out into the lobby, warm city lights reflecting off the marble floor. snow dusts the windows, settling against the glass like a soft knock. clark adjusts the scarf around your shoulders again. gentle, careful, like youâre made of something fragile and precious. "hold still." he murmurs, his tongue sweeps over his lips. you look up at him, "you always fuss over me." you chuckle and he lies, "i do not fuss."
you raise your brows signalling a warning look. he sighs, "okay, i fuss a little." you shake your head "a little?" he smiles sheepishly. okay then, a lot." when you step outside, the cold hits immediately and the kind that settles on your skin like a clingy ghost. clark steps closer, one hand hovering at the small of your back.
"are you warm enough?" he asks, his hand still there. "i am wearing half your scarf." you admit with a giggle. clarks words hit you like a train. "you can have all of it if you want." you shake your head laughing loudly.
"youâll freeze." he shrugs a bit "i run warm." oh, you do not need that information especially not right now. not with the image that immediately flashes in your mind. you shove it away and continue walking, snow crunching under your boots. clark keeps pace with you easily and then, slowly, tentatively, the back of his hand brushes yours.
you hold your breath. clark hesitates and then hesitates again and then like it costs him everything, he threads his fingers through yours. your heart does a full somersault. "is this okay?" he asks softly. you squeeze his hand. "yeah. yeah, it is." clark exhales like someone let him breathe for the first time all night.
you walk the next block in silence, hand-in-hand, snowflakes catching in your hair. clark keeps looking over at you like heâs memorizing every second. finally, he says, "can i ask you something?" you nod, smiling softly. "why me?" your breath fogs in front of you. "what do you mean?" clark looks down at your joined hands, then back at you â shy, earnest, unsure. "if someone flirts with you⊠why do you look for me? why do you want me to come over?"
you laugh gently. "clark. who else would i want?" his eyebrows lift, like he wasnât expecting that answer at all. you continue, stepping closer as the snow falls heavier. "i like you. i feel safe with you. i trust you, and." you swallow, cheeks warm. "âi like how you look when you get⊠protective."
you donât look at him when you say it but you feel the change. clark stops. completely. your joined hands stay connected, but he pulls you gently to a halt, turning toward you. snow flakes catch in his lashes. his breath fogs between you. his eyes soft blue, crackling with something heâs been holding back for months. his eyes search your face like heâs trying to read every secret youâve ever had. "sweetheart." clark murmurs, voice low and warm enough to melt ice, "you canât just say something like that."
your breath quickens. "why not?" he steps closer barely but enough that you feel the heat rolling off him. "because." he says, almost a whisper. "i donât know how to pretend around you anymore."
your heart stops, completely. "clarkâŠ" you whisper. he shakes his head gently, looking at you like you hung the stars. "i get jealous and i try not to but when someone leans close to you, when someone who isnât me tries to get your attentionâŠ" he swallows hard. "âŠit makes me want to step in. every time."
"clarkâŠ" you mumble but his voice cuts you short, "and not because i think you need rescuing." he adds, softer. "but because i want you to look at me the way you looked at me tonight." you blink, stunned. "how did i look at you?" you quip as clark smiles, small and heartbreakingly tender. "like i was the only one you wanted."
you open your mouth trying to deny it, to admit it, to say everything at once but before you can, clark lifts your joined hands and presses his lips to your knuckles. it's gentle and reverent. he's claiming without claiming. then suddenly the world goes quiet, it's just the soft snow and fogs of breath and him, clark.
@bibooby Thank you so much for a Bowser request, I forgot how much I loved this big scaly brute. I hope this will suffice to scratch your Bowser itch. :]
Request: Anything with bowser/reader PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE okay more seriously maybe some situation where bowser gets in trouble/injured/sick and a reader had to deal with the aftermath of it... (bowser really really likes the reader who is somehow oblivious to it
--------------------------------------
For all of a second, the world outside your kitchen window brightens as a blinding flash of lightening streaks across the ebony sky, casting its portentous glow over your garden and the rain-slicked cobblestones that wind their way up to your front door.
Itâs the briefest snippet of time, where everything is lit up in an instance of monochrome, all black and white and grey like an old photograph, a vivid disparity to the glow that keeps you wrapped up inside your home, golden and warm and safe.
The dish youâve been scrubbing slips from your fingers and lands in the sink with a cacophonous din, splashing warm, sudsy water all over the front of your apron, though you hardly pay any mind to the noise, or the water, too preoccupied with gaping out through the storm that rages beyond the windowâs glass.
Because slumping up the stony path, towering over shrubs and dead-headed roses, is a monstrous figure, a silhouette of grey standing tall against the inky darkness of a tempest.
It moves like itâs hurt - slowly, drunkenly, stumbling forwards a pace or two before it manages to bring itself to a clumsy halt, then teeters sideways and starts the whole process over again on its sluggish journey towards your house.
In the next second, the shock leaks from your chest and youâre on the move, scrambling away from the sink and tossing the sponge aside as you go, hearing a wet thwap as it lands somewhere nearby. You make a mad dash for the hallway adjoining your kitchen, slippered feet skidding across the tiles as you charge around the corner and beeline straight for the front door.
Because you recognise that figure, even if only by the size alone.
You donât know a great many people who are quite as large as him after all. Though what heâd be doing out in a squall like this at quarter to eleven at night is far beyond the scope of your imagination.
Already, youâre planning a lecture. One thatâll have to come after youâve discovered why your impromptu visitor is moving like a lame dog.
Red flag number one.
Hardly pausing long enough to get a proper grip on the doorhandle, you twist it clumsily aside and shove.
Itâs hardly opened wider than a hairline crack before the howling wind sneaks in behind the wood and nearly yanks the door from your grasp, and you have little choice but to go with it, letting the weather snatch it open and tug you out onto the porch step beyond.
All at once, youâre being pelted by ice-cold lashes of rain that sting at your cheeks and whip into your eyes before you can raise an arm, attempting to shield your face as you holler above the howling maelstrom, âBowser!?â
The eerie mirror-shine of eyes appear in the darkness, catching the light that spills from your hallway and reflecting it back at you.
Then, your visitor takes another step forwards, bringing himself just within reach of the dim glow.
Suspicions confirmed, you release a sharp huff of air, and without considering your slippers or the puddles pooling steadily along your path, you hop right off the porch step and march towards the gargantuan koopa, driven more by worry than anything even close to irritation.
At the approach of your splashing footfalls, a massive, horned head lifts away from where heâd tucked it against his chest, and you donât miss how that small movement looks to have taken far more effort than it should have.
In the middle of a stride, you flick your gaze rapidly up and down, cataloguing everything from the way his meaty hands clutch at his elbows with a fervour, to how the tail poking out from beneath his shell curls inwards around his leg.
Then the rain is taking over your lashes again, and you have to shake your head to clear them as you reach your friendâs side and let out a shout that blasts droplets of water off your lips. âWhat the Hell are you doing here!?â
In hindsight, you suppose you could have worded it more gently.
Bowserâs almighty chest wheezes out a thin, rattling breath as he instinctively pushes his nose towards you, eyelids thick and heavy. Yet even still, his muzzle manages to lift into a weary smile just at the sight of you.
âSârry,â he wobbles out in a voice like churning gravel, blinking unevenly at the ground when you duck beneath one of his arms and hoist it across your shoulders, buckling under a metric ton of muscle, âDiânât⊠know whâre else tâgoâŠ.â
Red flag number two.
Far from the scaley power-house youâve known for half a decade, now heâs trembling like a sapling in a hurricane.
It frightens you.
What happened to him?
Grunting with effort, you hold your tongue until youâve cajoled him over the threshold and into the warmth of your home, stretching your leg backwards to kick the door shut behind you, at once muffling the noise of the storm that still rages on outside.
Then, and only then, do you finally offer your exasperated response. âHome!â you wheeze, manoeuvring the Koopa under the cramped doorframe into your living room and trying not to wince as chips of wood are scraped off by the spikes protruding from his shell, âYou could have gone home. To your castle! To Kamek!? Instead of traipsing your sorry hide all the way here in the middle of the night, in a thunderstorm, no less!â
If you knew how little attention heâs paying to your apparent anger, and how much attention heâs paying to the softness of your body pressing up against his solid, leathery side, youâd probably be even more miffed. And rightly so.
Still, he at least catches the gist of what youâd said. Heâd be a fool not to listen to your voice when you speak, even with a fever running rampant beneath his shell. It would be like plugging his ears to a beautiful aria.
âCanât,â he mumbles through rubbery lips, vaguely aware of the fireplace youâve stopped at, âSâcon-⊠contay-jusâŠâ
And thereâs red flag number three.
Well, less of a red flag and more a blaring claxon.
âContagious?â you parrot, extracting yourself from under Bowserâs arm and moving to stand below his chin, earning a reedy whine of protest from the King, âYouâre sick?â And without waiting for permission, you reach up and press the back of your hand first to his leathery cheek, then to his forehead, pursing your lips at the heat radiating off his scales and missing the flutter of his eyelids as he nudges forwards into the touch.
âStarsâŠâ you hiss, âYouâre hot.â
When his drooping features struggle to lift into a very self-satisfied grin, you cluck your tongue and amend, âYouâre running a fever, Shell-for-brains⊠And you say itâs infectious?â
Even in his addled state, he must have caught the frown that troubles your brows because heâs suddenly dipping his snout down to you and trying to whuff softly through fluttering nostrils.
âKoopas,â he croaks raggedly, halfway drunk on the bliss of your skin easing the heat out of his blistering face, âOnly fâr Koopas⊠Wouldnât⊠do that⊠tâyouâŠâ
As if you give half a damn about that, but his voice seems to wane with the last of his strength, and you barely have time to dart forwards, splaying your hands against the soft underside of his chest and giving him a solid shove until he sways upright again.
He blinks, flaming eyebrows crawling apart in something like surprise when he drops his nose and peers blearily down at the spot where your palms connect with his sternum, as if heâs mystified by the simple, steadying touch.
You, in the meantime, are a little distracted by the rainwater dripping steadily off his scutes, hair, and chin to form a slowly-growing puddle on your hearth.
âFor goodnessâ sake, youâre soaked right throughâŠâ Biting on your lip, you frown up at the very damp koopa shivering in front of you, and begin cobbling together the vaguest structure of a plan.
Right. You have a friend whoâs⊠undeniably ill in your home. With something that only affects koopas, apparently. Heâs quaking from the horns on his head to the tip of his tail. Heâs far hotter to the touch than is typical for him, this in spite of being outside in the icy rain for an indeterminable amount of time⊠You donât know all the ins and outs of koopa biology. But having one for a best friend has given you at least a little insight into the species.
And you donât need to be an expert to recognise the signs of a fever when you see them.
âOkay, stay put. Iâll be back in a second,â you tell him urgently, giving him another once-over to make sure heâs adequately stable before you draw your hands away and turn to make a dash for the staircase at the opposite end of the room, leaving Bowser to peer after you in a daze.
Wait⊠His expression crumples as you disappear around the corner.
Where are you going?
Of its own accord, one of the Kingâs legs carries him forwards, and he stumbles heavily onto it, gritting his teeth and squeezing his eyes shut until the room around him stabilises once more. When he wrests his eyelids apart again, heâs standing at the foot of the staircase, his clawed hand crushing a finial that cracks and splinters under his grasp as he tries using it to haul his entire bodyweight up onto the first step, intent on following you.
Beneath the sluggish muddle of thoughts clomping around inside his skull, thereâs a tiny inkling of coherency thatâs berating him for showing weakness, for getting sick in the first place, for coming here â to your home â and letting you see him vulnerable and clumsy and as far from dignified as a king could possibly get. But that inkling is small, and lost easily under the tides of instinct and impulse, both of which were what led him here in the first place, seeking comfort in a familiar space with familiar smells and his most treasured friend who he knew would always open the door to let him in.
And now, youâre gone again, taking the majority of that comforting scent with you, and Bowserâs body is desperately attempting to track you down once more.
He slumps in palpable relief when you suddenly reappear at the top of the stairs like a vision descending from the heavens, with your arms engulfing a tower of blankets and towels that are stacked high to your chin.
âThought I told you to stay put,â you say without a lick of heat behind your words as you navigate the steps, peering around your stack at the Koopa gazing up at you from below.
He simply rumbles a hum in the affirmative, giving you an adoring look that you easily chalk up to the fever running its course and leaving his head in a daze.
As you meet him at the foot of the stairs, you spare the briefest grimace at your ruined finial before squeezing past Bowserâs immense bulk and bumping your shoulder against his elbow, guiding him to turn with you, back towards the inviting hearth.
Itâs easy enough to coax him after you, and you almost wish he was this biddable when heâs not running a fever. He seems inclined to follow you, at least, hovering a little too close as you dump your armful of blankets onto the floor and begin spreading them around, bunching some up and smoothing others out until youâve made a decent enough little bed for him in front of the hearth.
Evidently, he finds it more than suitable, trying to step into it with an approving thrum from deep in his chest.
âHold on, hold on!â you admonish him lightly, grabbing a towel from the mess and pushing yourself back to your feet, âLetâs dry you off a bit first. Then you can lay down.â
The Koopaâs shoulders sink as he snorts out a petulant huff, but all the same, he wavers obediently in place for you to start towelling him off, starting with what you can reach.
Your hands, comparatively tiny in just one of his own, scoop his palm up as you begin to gently glide the towel up and down the length of his hefty arm.
Something solid thuds on the ground behind him, a sound that you simply ignore⊠until it happens for a second time. And then a third.
You bring your ministrations to a brief pause, leaning sideways and glancing at the floor near Bowserâs feet, only for your brows to gradually creep back up your forehead when you make an⊠unexpected discovery.
In slow, sleepy motions, the Koopaâs yellow tail is lifting itself from the ground before slumping back down again, repetitively thumping at the carpet beneath him.
It seems youâve found the source of the strange noise.
âWow,â you observe, hesitantly returning to your task and sweeping the already-damp towel up the inside of his forearm, careful to brush lightly over his spiked wrist band, âYou really must be out of it.â Â
You donât think it needs to be said that heâs usually very controlled about wagging his tail.
Bowser just hums a distracted note in response and exhales hot air over the top of your head.
Worriedly, your chest bobs with a sigh as you hurry on to his next arm, stretching the towel up towards his shoulder before drawing it back down to his wrist and gathering water from the too-pale scales.
Thereâs a sudden, soft pressure on the crown of your head, and you flick your eyes up to find Bowser has pushed his snout into your hair, snuffling gently through his nose.
âFeelâsânice,â he slurs, as if thatâs explanation enough.
With a well-meaning roll of your eyes, you flip the towel over to its drier side and step back, stifling a tiny smile at how his head suddenly dips at the unexpected loss of his chin-rest.
âAll right, plop yourself down here,â you tell him, gesturing at the pile of blankets that are slowly gathering warmth by the fireside, âAnd Iâll dry your-â
A heavy âwhumph!â shakes the paintings hung on your walls as the King drops like a two-ton boulder onto his front, shoving a colossal lungful of air through his parted lips.
â⊠- hair,â you finish flatly.
Dull, doleful eyes turn up to peer at you, and one of Bowserâs hands untucks from his chest, creeping towards you and delicately curling around the back of your ankle, giving it a light tug.
Itâs a silent, entirely unsubtle request. One you oblige without much hesitation.
âOkay, okay,â you tell the impatient Koopa when he begins to paw at you in earnest, lowering yourself down in front of him on crossed legs and bending forwards to take one of his horns in each hand, âCâmon. Up here.â
Churring out a lazy rumble, Bowser allows you to guide his head into your lap with only a little effort on his part. He settles contentedly, his nose pressed to the soft roll of your belly, and his eyes slipping shut as he exhales a warm breath over the hem of your shirt.
Placing the towel between his horns, you begin to gently rub at his sopping-wet mane.
âSo,â you huff by way of conversation, âCan I ask you something?â
Bowserâs voice is low and rich, buzzing through you when he responds with a blissful, âAnythinââŠâ
For just a moment, the word gives you pause, but you eventually purse your lips and dismiss his excess sappiness as a symptom of his affliction. âWant to tell me why you thought it was a good idea â if youâre already sick â to walk all the way through a storm to get here? Youâll give yourself pneumonia if you arenât carefulâŠâ
As soon as you voice the possibility into existence, you bite down on the inside of your cheek and try to envision the contents of your medical cabinetâŠ
Bowser only grumbles a noise into your stomach whilst you card your fingers through his tousled strands, working water to their tips so they can be soaked up by the towel.
âHonestly,â you admonish after a minute of oppressive silence, unaccustomed to your larger-than-life friend being so still and quiet, âWhy you didnât just hole up in your room âtil the infection passes⊠or y'know, go to an actual healer, is beyond me.â Distractedly, you use your free hand to thumb at the furrow between his brows until the line softens. âNot that it isnât great to see you. And you know you're always welcome here-"
The Koopaâs mouth tilts up into a wan smile at that, at least until you add, â-but this wasnât one of your better ideas.â Not to mention that seeing him in this state has effectively frightened the life out of youâŠ
But saying as much out loud might be a little too familiar, even among friends, so you keep the admission tucked away behind your tongue, in safer waters.
Heaving out a very unapologetic grunt, Bowser burrows his snout even more firmly into your stomach and mutters, âWâs missinâ youâŠâ
Ah, well... So much for too familiar.
You resist the urge to blurt out a fond laugh, privately flattered that the great King of Koopas would admit to something so sentimental, feverish or not.
âItâs only been a few weeks since karaoke night,â you point out.
âLong enough,â he grumbles, rolling his weight forwards slightly and purring out, âNâyouâre safeâŠâ
You blink. It takes you a moment to realise heâs offering another excuse for his being here.
âSafe?â you echo, leaning over to reach down the back of his thick, muscular neck and drying the scales just beneath the lip of his cumbersome shell, âOf course Iâm safe. This isnât exactly a dangerous place to live.â
Due in no small part to Bowser making sure of the fact before he even allowed you to step foot on the island, let alone build yourself a home out here. It took you months to reassure the nearby village of Toads that, no, Bowser would not be burning their homes to ash if they so much as looked at you the wrong way. Took even longer to get the Koopa himself to promise you he wouldnât.
Did he really drag himself out here in a thunderstorm to check that youâre safe? When a simple letter would have sufficed?
Idiot⊠Â
An idiot whoâs loyal to his friends though, youâll give him that.
But in your lap, Bowser is quick to roll his head gingerly from side to side and lets out a contradicting huff in response.
Apparently, youâve misunderstood something.
ââŠTrust ya,â he presses insistently, peeling apart his crust-coated eyelids to gaze up at your downturned face, âYer safeâŠ. Kamek knows⊠Jânr knowsâŠ. Yâr safe⊠One ofâusâŠâ
One of-âŠ.
And suddenly, it clicks.
The hand youâd been smoothing over the top of his skull goes very still.
⊠Oh.
Swallowing thickly, you meet his eye, and though the fire is dimmed by fever, his typical sincerity is still there, blazing away behind a glassy sheen.
It makes⊠sense? You suppose.
Heâs sick. And although heâd rather die than admit it, heâs vulnerable. He left the fortress to protect his fellow koopas, and came to the only place he could think of where he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that heâd be safeâŠ
He came to youâŠ
You're safe...
Itâs a humbling thing to realise.
Absently, you sweep a thumb up and down his temple, pulled from your thoughts when you register the heat pulsing there.
Right⊠Not out of the woods just yet.
Heaving a sigh, you drop the towel and scoot backwards, sliding Bowserâs chin from your legs, much to his chagrin.
âAll right, stay here,â you tell him, rising to your feet and stepping deftly over the paw that tries to recapture your ankle, âIâll be in kitchen. If I have it my way, youâll be sweating this fever out tonight. And youâre gonna need to keep your fluids up when you do⊠And try to stay put this time!â
Bowser tries to say something, but his eyelids fall shut, and when he finds the strength to pry them open again, youâre sliding down in front of him once more, setting a glass of water on the floor behind you and pressing something under his nose that immediately overwhelms his nostrils with the potent scent of boiled ginger.
Tea⊠he registers dimly, inhaling an enormous swathe of gingery steam into his train-carriage chest. Youâve made him teaâŠ
Not for the first time, he wonders if now would be the right moment to finally ask for your hand in marriageâŠ. Oh, but he left the ring in his bedroom⊠Damn.
âHhh. Love you,â he urgently rasps instead, the words getting lost around the rim of the cup as you tip it forwards, letting him take a tiny sip that immediately tingles in his throat, âLove you⊠sâmuchâŠâ
âYeah, I love you too, Big guy,â you tell him innocently, drawing the cup away and laying a cold, damp cloth across his forehead to draw the fever out. He shudders at its presence, but then he settles, blinking with a scrunch of his eyes for a few seconds before drowsily gaping up at you, his pupils blown wide in apparent wonder.
âYâmean it?â he whispers hoarsely.
Quirking your lips at him, you hedge, âOf course?â
You donât expect the vast Koopa to so suddenly peel his head from the blankets, shove himself forwards and drop his chin heavily into your lap once more, grunting like it had taken all of his remaining strength to do so. His eyes are squeezed shut, and the blankets behind him rustle as his tail swishes from side to side across the fabric. âOh, thaâs⊠good,â he gushes reverently through an exhale, like youâve just told him the greatest news of his life, a trembling smile pushing at his pallid cheeks, âBeen so worried⊠âbout tellinâ yaâŠâ
Bemused - and confused - you angle your head to one side and squint down at him, a small, awkward smile tugging at the corner of your lips. âIâm⊠sorry?â
âNotâchâyer fault,â comes his weary reply. He sounds seconds away from falling into a dead sleep. âDiânât wanna scare yaâŠâ
âBowser? I think youâre delirious, youâre not making any-â
âYâre best thingâsâever happunâd tâmeâŠâ
â⊠Now Iâm sure thatâs not true,â you try to dismiss, reapplying the cold cloth and daubing gently at his temples.
âLove you,â he repeats stubbornly, with startling resolve. And as if it wasnât getting hard enough to refute his conviction⊠âLoved you sânce thâday I saw yaâŠâ
⊠AhâŠ
âIs⊠is that right?â you swallow a little breathlessly, staring into the flames dancing and twisting behind his shell as if youâre trapped in a mystified daze.
You feel him give a pathetic nod, then the resonance of his hum pitches through your stomach like a roll of thunder. âMhmâŠâ
Oh, BowserâŠ
He starts to say something else, but you hush him softly, pressing the cloth over each of his eyes and wiping the crust away with gentle motions. "You need to sleep," you whisper through a tight throat, "You'll feel more like yourself in the morning..."
You're curious to know if he'll remember what he's just said to you... If he'll think it bears repeating....
In your heart of hearts, you really hope he does.
"I... c'n stay?"
Like he even needs to ask...
Heart wedged uncomfortably in your neck, you lean down, and after settling the flutter of nerves that pulses against your sternum, you finally lay the ghost of a kiss to the very tip of his snout.
At the feather-light touch, his entire body jolts from the force of a sudden rumbling purr thatâs kicked out of his chest.
Youâre⊠not so certain that this is all just the fever talking anymore.
